


Answers

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Rain, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there's lots of rain, James forgetting his brand-new keys to Michael's flat, Michael utterly failing to make it home in the promised ten minutes, and large amounts of tea and comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pripple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pripple/gifts).



> Title and opening lines from the Dave Matthews Band song “Where Are You Going?” this time.

  
_I am no hero, oh, that’s for sure_   
_but I do know one thing for sure:_   
_where you are is where I belong_   
_I do know, where you go_   
_is where I want to be_   


  
  
He’d promised to be home in ten minutes. Forty minutes ago. Michael stared with helpless fury at the traffic lights, at the uncaring rain, and swore out loud.  
  
The profanities were muffled by his motorbike helmet. This did nothing to relieve his emotions.  
  
“Come on,” he said to the storm and the skittish drivers and the sleet-grey afternoon, “come _on_ ,” and the light finally thank god changed, and he took off.  
  
A slow take-off, though. Too many vehicles. Too many pedestrians, and what were they all doing out, slogging through London muck in the rain? He’d taken the motorbike because he’d thought that’d be easier; he hated the Tube on damp days, all sticky people crowded together and uncomfortably hot and steaming. It’d been meant to be a quick meeting, his agent buying him lunch and handing over potential new projects; he’d wanted to be home before James arrived, because he knew James would be carrying boxes, because this moving-in-together moment was still so new and consequently amazing every time more cake pans and DVDs turned up to live in his— _their_ —home.  
  
But James had called him, forty minutes ago; James had forgotten his keys, the brand-new keys to Michael’s building and flat, the ones he’d only had for two days; James had been hoping to bring books over, tattered Shakespeare and science fiction and Irvine Welsh novels, and had been outside his door, in the rain.  
  
James in the rain, Michael thought again, and took a corner at dangerous speed.  
  
James got cold so easily. Made jokes about being a lizard-person, laughing, basking in sunshine and heat; wore layers constantly, huge enveloping sweaters and multiple jackets and fingerless gloves. Walked around Michael’s place— _their_ place, once James’s lease ended next week and all the boxes arrived—in fuzzy socks and a ridiculous striped Narnia Pride! jumper a fan’d knitted and sent to him, and saw nothing to be embarrassed about in this. Michael wanted to kiss him at every opportunity.  
  
He _knew_ James got cold. Had felt those fingertips like ice in his at film premieres, even in summertime.  
  
Nearly there. Two more blocks.  
  
Another light.  
  
An accident, cars squished into each other mid-intersection. The drivers didn’t appear to be hurt, from the volume of their shouting at each other; Michael gritted his teeth and let the police officers direct him and everyone else around the scene.  
  
James probably would’ve worried. Would’ve asked whether there was anything he could do. Gotten both angry storm-soaked drivers to calm down and shake hands with a single smile and a look from those blue eyes.  
  
Blue eyes that’d be equally storm-soaked, because Michael couldn’t finish his meeting on time, had told himself that five minutes wouldn’t matter, had stepped outside and encountered the deluge.  
  
Surely James wouldn’t’ve waited the whole time. James had more sense than to stand around in a vicious tempest. More desire for preservation, if not for himself then for his books.  
  
But James would’ve waited for a while. Would’ve been wet and cold, despite the best efforts of all the layers. Would’ve believed that Michael was coming home.  
  
And he was, he _was_ , and he flew around the final corner and flung his bike into its parking spot and sprinted for the steps.  
  
No James. No curling hair, plastered flat by water; no extraordinary eyes lighting up the grey. No pixie-height sturdy muscles and cinnamon-cream skin.  
  
Michael stood in the deluge, panting, chest heaving, and thought: James, I’m so sorry. I’d’ve been here, I’d’ve come home, it wasn’t my fault…  
  
But it had been, at least in part. He’d lied to James, however inadvertently; had let James down.  
  
He knew how James reacted, being let down. He’d seen it before, though thankfully not directed at himself. Had sworn in the privacy of his own head that he’d never give any cause for that forlorn retreat, that silence, the way blue eyes went distant and inward and the accent turned dull and resigned: no, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, don’t feel bad on my account, can I bake you something decadent, would you like chocolate or strawberry…  
  
The worst part was that James believed it. It wasn’t emotional manipulation or an attempt at wounded revenge; no, it was the complicated legacy of a father who’d walked out the door and never come home, of growing up short and freckled and generous and imaginative in a neighborhood that valued none of those traits, of a deep-rooted streak of self-dismissal that’d astonished Michael the first time he’d ever seen it, when he’d not been able to believe it, not from James, who laughed and got the world to laugh along with him.  
  
James was friends with everyone, sunny and charming and genuinely attentive to the needs of every person he’d ever met. James never asked anyone for anything.  
  
James had let him in, had let him see beyond the quicksilver grin and the ready affection, or had begun to. Had believed the words when Michael’d asked him to move in.  
  
And James wasn’t here.  
  
Michael stood beneath the hammer of the rain, getting rapidly soaked through and not caring. James was gone. Had gone home.  
  
He shook himself, ran up the steps, and ducked into the sparse shelter of the doorway, under the overhang. Fumbled for his phone with icicle fingers. The cold wasn’t only from the storm.  
  
Missed calls. Three. A voicemail.  
  
He stood there shivering, listening to James’s voice in his ear: so I suppose you’re running late? Would you know exactly how late? Oh, and it looks like rain, maybe I should go, listen, it’s fine, I’ll see you later—and my battery’s dying, I think I’ve left the charger at your place again, sorry—  
  
That was it. Nothing more. No _I love you_ at the end.  
  
James always said _I love you_. Liked saying it; liked hearing it said back.  
  
Michael thumped his head back against the door, let his shoulders slump, and felt his heart quiver. The icicles were working their way in there, too.  
  
Slowly, he found his own keys, and opened the door. Stepped inside, shut it, leaned wearily back against the sympathetic old wood. After a minute, he lifted the phone again. Tried dialing, hopelessly.  
  
The call went to voicemail. Naturally.  
  
“James,” he said, “I’m sorry. I love you. I didn’t mean—never mind, it’s not important, it doesn’t matter whether I meant to. I’m really fucking sorry, I swear I’ll make it up to you, just please call me back, please talk to me, I love you.”  
  
James would hear the message. Would listen to it. Would listen to it if Michael went upstairs and found that charger—he knew exactly where it’d be, plugged into the wall by the bed, where James always left it—and jumped back on the bike and brought it over to him in the rain.  
  
James would want to listen, right?  
  
He climbed the steps, each one a mountain. Had to drag his heart up them along with his feet. Surely James would listen. James _was_ a kind person, the kindest best most wonderful person Michael’d ever known; of course James would give him another chance.  
  
He’d be taking advantage of that kindness, if James did. Wrong.  
  
He hauled himself to his door, fumbled tiredly and damply at slippery keys, and barely got the right one in the lock before the door opened from the inside.  
  
He all but fell over. Sturdy freckled hands caught him before he could hit the ground.  
  
“James—you—how—”  
  
“Your maintenance person let me in.” James was reaching for him while talking, pulling off his dripping leather jacket, running hands all over his chest, his arms, his face. “You’re completely freezing, come here, I love you—”  
  
“What—love you—always—how are you—”  
  
“Here?” James paused to kiss him, swift and assured. Michael gazed at him, drinking in the sight: waves of improbable hair, oversized fraying red sweater atop grey thermal fuzziness, faded jeans, sock-clad toes peeking out from too-long hems. Unmatchable brilliant eyes, gazing at him with fondness and concern. Real.  
  
“I love you,” he said again, and folded both arms around him, kicking the door shut with a belated foot, burying his face in James’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. Tea and apple shampoo and a hint of smoky sugar and delicious clean male skin and James. Heartbreaking perfection.  
  
“I love you, too. You’re being awfully affectionate; is everything all right?” James pulled back a bit to scrutinize him. “And it has been forty minutes— _are_ you all right? You’re not hurt, or—”  
  
“No, nothing, just the rain, the traffic—but I did sort of leave late—James, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve—”  
  
“What, controlled the weather?” James kissed him again. “Unless you have superpowers I don’t know about, I don’t think you can. Very much tell me if you do, though. I’d like to know if I’m dating a superhero. And come have tea. I just made it.”  
  
He trailed James over to the sofa. To the squashable cushions, and the hideous knitted magenta blanket-monstrosity his sister’d sent for his birthday. There was a welcoming mug on the table, and a body-shaped indentation in the corner; James’d obviously been curled up there, and just as obviously not putting away the box of books and instead reading the Star Trek novel that sat guiltily by the mug.  
  
“I was trying not to worry,” James said, and didn’t let go of him; Michael realized that while he’d been terrified of possible consequences, James must’ve been imagining him in an accident and injured, lying on the side of the road someplace, and in the background the television was announcing multiple accidents and floods.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said, and sat down and pulled James down on top of him. This earned a yelp, but no protest—James had given up on that front months ago—and Michael held him while James settled in, feet tucked under the blanket, head on Michael’s shoulder, breath ghosting warm over his neck.  
  
“Maintenance person, you said?”  
  
“Mmm. Finally fixing that broken drain, in the guest shower. The one named Bryan—maintenance person, I mean, not shower. He says hello.”  
  
Michael, who was beginning to get used to the fact that he’d lived in his flat for five years and knew none of the maintenance workers beyond mutual nods of appreciation and recognition, while James technically hadn’t even moved in and knew them all by name, said, “He let you in?”  
  
“Serendipitous timing. He was going out to get some tools, and saw me with all the books, and held the door for me, and then let me into the flat. We should do something nice for him. Do you think he likes shortbread? Because I could—”  
  
Michael said, “Yes,” and kissed him mid-sentence, unable to resist those tempting lips any longer. “Anything you want. I’ll help you bake. And put away your books. I did make shelf space for you…” And he thought: I love you, how can I ask, how badly did I hurt you, that you’re hiding it so well?  
  
“You did.” Eyes sparkled at him, chips of blue sky saved from all the humdrum rain. “Though I’m afraid it won’t be enough. You have seen my place; you can’t possibly imagine we’re going to get through this move without buying at least two more bookshelves.”  
  
“As many as you want.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a dangerous promise.”  
  
“James…” He laced fingers together, keeping James secure in the circle of his arms. “I’m sorry. I mean it. I should’ve left on time. What can I do, for you?”  
  
“Oh…” James sat up. Michael reluctantly loosened the arms. If James needed space, needed to—  
  
Anything James needed. No matter how much it tore at his own heart.  
  
“Michael,” James said, looking directly into his eyes, “I’m all right. I know it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“It was—”  
  
“Maybe a little. If you’re going to insist. But…you aren’t trying to hurt me, you care if I do get hurt, and I believe you when you say you want me here, and you want to be here. I love you. That’s what that means.”  
  
“You…”  
  
“I’m all right,” James said again, and did a little one-shouldered shrug at him: lift, drop, quirk of smile. “I trust you. Like you trust me to tell you if I’m not. Besides, I heard your message. I found the charger as soon as I got in. I’d’ve called you back, but you were already here.”  
  
“Ohhh,” Michael said, and leaned forward and slid hands up James’s back, feeling the silky fluff of the top layer, the heavy cotton of the shirt underneath, the warmth of all those freckles on his fingers and palms. “I’m sorry for that too. I must’ve sounded sort of insane. I was, though, I was scared you’d be gone and you’d hate me, I’m so sorry, you can just delete that now, please.”  
  
“Never,” James told him cheerfully, fitting a hand around the back of his neck, playing with the fine wispy hairs there in a way they both knew would make his knees go weak, “I’m going to keep it and listen to it forever. On repeat.” That smile softened, grew warmer, more intimate. “Or when I’m feeling lonely.”  
  
“I never want you to feel lonely,” Michael said, and James kissed the corner of his mouth, tongue sneaking out to tease his desperate lips. “I know. You love me. And sometimes things go incredibly wrong, and there’s rain and traffic on the exact day I forget my keys, and we’re still okay. I like having that, with you.”  
  
“Having…keys?”  
  
“That too.” James breathed out, gently, brushing kisses over his jawline, along his throat. “I meant I like knowing that even when it all goes wrong we’re both still here.”  
  
“We are,” Michael said, tilting his head back to let James nibble at his neck, sliding his own hands lower, beneath faded denim, searching out beloved curves and familiar skin. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
For trusting me. For believing in me so completely. For having that much faith in us. “For wanting to move in with me,” he said, and James laughed. “You may regret that when you’re surrounded by an army of books. Come on. We’re getting you out of the wet clothes. And into bed. Warming up. Vigorous activity.”  
  
“I like your plan,” Michael said, “and no. No regrets. Not ever,” and kissed him again, on their worn sofa in their flat, while the rain applauded noisily outside.


End file.
